


Cold December

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a Combeferre/Grantaire modern AU wintery fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold December

Enjolras went to church regularly. It was not something Courfeyrac and Combeferre questioned, because Enjolras did everything regularly - the Sunday service, a one and a half hour slot starting at 7pm, was clearly marked on his schedule, and he attended the services without fail just as he went to work exactly on time, and did his charity work in strictly scheduled fashions.

And Combeferre and Courfeyrac, well. They weren’t religious. Combeferre believed in a creator God, sort of, and saw no need to worship them (it or him or her or some new, transcendent pronoun no man could comprehend: he didn’t think it mattered much, at this point) and Courfeyrac was vaguely agnostic, but when Courfeyrac curiously asked what the service comprised of, and Enjolras deadpanned that attending was really the best way to find out, both of them had agreed willingly enough.

It was a cold night, and December was just setting in. There was frost everywhere, and ice had started to form on the pavements (this made Combeferre nervous, partly because Joly worried, and mostly because in regards to Bossuet’s unluckiness, he was completely right to be worried). The cold was biting, and Combeferre shoved his hands deeply into his coat pockets as they moved down the street.

Enjolras seemed entirely unaffected, but then, his red coat was as warm as it was lurid, and he had a thick, woolen scarf around his neck and up to his neck. Courfeyrac wore three jumpers overtop each other, dispensing with a coat entirely, and had earlier conceded Combeferre’s point that he looked ridiculous, but still ignored his friends’ suggestions to change.

A greeter was smiling at them when they entered the building, and Enjolras offered a polite greeting as he took a program from him before moving into the building. The church was  _glorious_ , its ceiling high and vaulted, the pillars and walls well-carved, and Combeferre looked at the ceiling and the stained glass windows with no small amount of awe.

Such beauty was to be found in churches, he thought, even though it was  _freezing_  in the building. Enjolras settled in a pew with Courfeyrac and Combeferre either side of him, and regarded the program. It was a simple enough bulletin, with some hymn words printed, and with a basic summary of that evening’s proceedings.

Enjolras was subdued, calm and quiet in a way he didn’t often get. Combeferre usually saw him like this in the dead of night, when he had nothing to study but couldn’t sleep, and would settle to read with this same peaceful expression.

When the service began, he listened intently, his lips pursed as watched the priest (was it a priest? Combeferre really wasn’t sure at all. Pastor, maybe?) speak. The sermon wasn’t really interesting to Combeferre, but then, he supposed he was not really the target audience.

They stood to sing their hymns, and when the priest moved to speak again, Courfeyrac whispered, “Do you do the wine and biscuits thing?”

"It’s a Eucharist, not a biscuit, Courfeyrac, and no, this is an Anglican church." Enjolras said, but he didn’t sound irritated - Enjolras smiled fondly as he glanced at Courfeyrac, and then he looked back to the front. 

Combeferre had wanted to ask this question himself, and was more than a little embarrassed by his lack of knowledge on the subject. It was right at the end of the service that a man at the front stood up, looking to address the congregation.

And dear God (was that a blasphemy?) he was beautiful. Combeferre’s lips parted as he looked at the man, with his dark, unkempt hair and his pretty face, and God, he was gorgeous, even though his lips were chapped, and stubble messily covered his cheeks, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

He wore a red tie with his black shirt, tucked as it was into tight fitting jeans under a green vest, and Combeferre swallowed as he smiled and clasped his hands together before turning back to face a choir of young boys and girls.

Combeferre recognized Alzema and Gavroche, Éponine’s younger siblings, and wondered how he’d never realized their friend’s family was linked to the same church as Enjolras’.

And then, by God, they began to sing, and Combeferre was awestruck. Benjamin Britten, the beautiful man had said, This Little Babe, and it was incredible.

They sung in canon, and Combeferre couldn’t tell if it was in three parts or four, but it was a sweet sound, each part sung as clearly as the ring of a bell, and he was more than impressed by the choir’s ability. Despite himself, he found his eyes moving to Grantaire’s hands as he conducted them instead of their faces, focusing on the clever movements of those digits that looked like they were stained with something (ink, perhaps?), and on the movement of muscle beneath the silken fabric of the vest and the cloth of his shirt. 

"Dear God." He whispered as the song ended, clapping with the rest of the congregation, and Enjolras rolled his eyes at him before moving to bow his head in prayer.

The service was done in another ten minutes, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre followed Enjolras as he strode up the aisle. They had a meeting in the Musain at 9, and they had twenty or so minutes before they really needed to be there.

Enjolras leaned to touch Gavroche and Alzema’s cheeks with an almost paternal affection, and he and Courfeyrac brightly greeted Éponine Thénardier as she stepped forwards. Combeferre, going for subtlety, stepped quietly away from them to wear the choirmaster was dropping sheet music into a plastic crate.

"Hallo there." He said quietly. "Uh, I’m Combeferre." And he offered a small smile. The choirmaster looked up, blinking at him, and then he smiled, and Combeferre’s heart skipped a beat.

"Grantaire." The man returned, his voice low and sweet, and he shook Combeferre’s proffered hand. He looked back to his music, sorting the sheets before dropping them into the box, and Combeferre awkwardly shifted on his heels, not knowing what to say. "You aren’t part of the congregation." Grantaire said astutely.

"Uh, no, no, I’m here with Enjolras."

"Oh." Grantaire said softly, and he glanced to the blond, nodding with a quiet hum. "He’s a nice man. You’re lucky to have him." Combeferre blinked.

"Uh, no, no, no, God, no, we aren’t- I mean, not that I’d never- well actually I never would- he’s- we’re not-" Grantaire was staring at him, and Combeferre cursed his scarlet cheeks and his flustered tongue. "We’re not together."

"Oh." Grantaire said. "God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed-"

"No, it’s quite alright." Combeferre managed to get out, and there was a longer, awkward silence before Combeferre regained his rationality and said, "I actually came over to ask  _you_  if you were, uh, single, or if you might like to go for a coffee- I mean, actually, no, that sounds ridiculous, and I’m sure you wouldn’t like- I- d’you know, I’ll just-“

Grantaire caught Combeferre’s hand, and his hand was  _warm_  and calloused, and now as Combeferre looked down at it he realized the inky stains were made up of paint.

"Oh, no, no, no. You’ve asked; I accept. Verbal contract has been initiated, so I shall not let you go." Grantaire winked, and Combeferre managed a soft laugh.

"Enjolras, I’m going to miss tonight’s meeting, I’m just going to go and get coffee with Grantaire here." The blond pulled a face.

"Oh, can you not just  _bring_  him?”

“ _No_ , Enjolras.” Grantaire chuckled a little, quietly greeting Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Courfeyrac grabbed the blond around his middle, happily dragging him away down the aisle, and Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

"Are  _they_  together?”

"Perhaps." Combeferre said lightly. "Courfeyrac is exceedingly tactile." He leaned and took Grantaire’s crate of sheet music, and, after a roll of his eyes, the musician let him, leading Combeferre out to his car after pulling on a scarf and a beanie.

"You are a gentleman."

"I try to be." Combeferre said quietly, and then Grantaire grasped at his hand again, walking with him down the street. 

"So, your name is Combeferre, and you’re a non-believer who goes to church services for fun?"

"How do you know I’m a non-believer?" Grantaire regarded him, and Combeferre, after a few moments, chuckled.

"Okay, fine. We were curious, so Enjolras brought us with him."

"I didn’t know he had friends." Combeferre glanced at him, his eyebrows raising. "I don’t mean it nastily. I just mean, well, I knew on some level he must know people, but he’s always so  _quiet_ -“

"He’s not usually quiet." Combeferre said. "You should see him orate."

"He  _orates_? Do people still do that?”

"People might not, but he does." Grantaire laughed a little, and he adjusted his grip on Combeferre’s hand, and God, his fingers were warm, comfortable. "So, what do you do?"

"I’m a painter. Canvases more than walls." Combeferre nodded. "You?"

"I’m a doctor."

"Really?" Grantaire nodded, and he swung their hands a little. "Huh. Maybe you’re too smart for me." Combeferre snorted.

"I’m not that smart."

"Liar. I bet you collect moths and have a book buying problem."

"Moths  _and_  butterflies, and Enjolras intervenes if I buy more than ten in a week.” Grantaire laughed, and Combeferre grinned himself. He rubbed his thumb over Grantaire’s palm, and was surprised by how comfortable he was doing so.

"Is this meeting you’re missing important?"

"It’s not a  _meeting_  as such. There’s just a group of us and we meet up a few times a week, drink, talk about politics, community things. Enjolras calls them meetings because…” Combeferre searched his lexicon for the word, and shrugged, giving up. “He is enigmatic.”

"Oh." Grantaire snorted, and he and Combeferre dipped into a coffee shop on the corner. "Fair enough."

They continued to talk over coffee, about Combeferre’s job and Grantaire’s art, and about different things, odd things, general life things and more specific, philosophical ideas.

"While we live in a society that demonizes those who perform charitable acts we cannot expect a charitable and equal society to form, and that is wrong and reprehensible." Combeferre said sharply, and, on impulse, Grantaire grabbed him by the shirt collar, pulling them into a hard kiss.

Combeferre tasted the cinnamon and syrup from Grantaire’s drink on his lips, and when he pulled back, he was momentarily dazed. The sensation reminded him of the cartoonish swirl of stars and birds around a smitten character’s head, and he swayed slightly.

"I’m so glad I didn’t let you go." Grantaire said firmly. "And you’re completely right: we need  _significant_  social reform to expect the betterment of any society - it’s just impossible to achieve.”

They continued to talk, and even though he was fascinated by Grantaire’s political opinions, Combeferre found himself distracted by the movement of Grantaire’s lips and his tongue as he vociferated his ideas.

It was only when they left the café that he indulged, dipped and captured Grantaire’s mouth, his hand cupping the other’s jaw. Grantaire leaned into it, up on his tip-toes to press for more, and dear God, Combeferre  _loved_  his, loved the warmth of the other man against him.

When they pulled back from each other, Grantaire licked his lips, and he caught Combeferre’s hand. “Come home with me.”

"Are you- are you sure-"

"Completely sure. I mean, unless you have work-"

"Afternoon shift."

"Then come home with me." Grantaire requested, and he leaned back, let Combeferre see his neck, and he didn’t know if the other man had done that on purpose, but either way, it was intoxicating.

"Okay." Combeferre said, and they walked down the street they’d come down, swinging their hands, and something seemed to click.

Combeferre grinned, and Grantaire leaned slightly against him, falling into step despite Combeferre’s longer legs: it was a comfortable rhythm, and both of them felt suddenly  _right_. “Ah, nothing but a warm body to stave off the icy hands of cruel December.” Grantaire murmured, and Combeferre grinned.

"Nothing like a sharp tongue to cut away the monotony of winter." Grantaire let out a loud, laughing sound. 

"That’s good, I like that." Truth be told, he liked everything: they both did.

Remarkably, the thought went unvoiced, and yet, it was heard.


End file.
